My, oh my, Old Friend.
We meet again.

You were rambunctious walking into my turf,
Motorcycle helmet in bound.
The tattoos scouring to be found over beat leather jacket
I scourhned myself for you in a Mother Land where
I made you build granite houses for some respect to the land
You could find elsewhere in your own that is my Home
Just much more South than where the origin
Got along much before you
And yet you’re friends with all my friends and have bested us in your nubile ways many times.

Your immaturity is lack-game
But stacking bills and coppering wills somehow is your diligence
In primed alternative excellency.
And you expect me not to know you ship out again soon.

Lie to me, or otherwise.
Welcome Home bud.

One Above, or Two Below.
It’s your territory to not ask where to go
As long as it’s anywhere besides
A 2’4 bunk in barn – we already know that’s your preferred post.

Tense.
You seem when the chickens start hatchin’ again, huh?
You need a spritz on that cassava leather. Friend.